


Venus as a Boy in Shearling

by ficdis



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman, Venus in Fur - Ives
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Song: Venus as a Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28238835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficdis/pseuds/ficdis
Summary: At the height of a storm, a young man drifts into the studio of a first time writer and director for an audition.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Venus as a Boy in Shearling

**Author's Note:**

> _Venus as a Boy_ by Björk ~ _He believes in a beauty, he's Venus as a boy_

Sleeting snow pelted against the window pane, its rhythm steady but strengthening. Armie Hammer ran his hand over his frustrated face and lifted his tall frame from the work table. He strolled over to the entrance of the rental studio space and bolted the door shut, creating a rusty clicking sound in the room. What an unproductive day it had been, a day that would surely set him further behind schedule. 

His phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the name of the caller and spoke the following words into the phone’s microphone between short pauses to his fiancé, “Yes honey. No luck today. It sucks. I’ll probably have to stay in New York a little longer. Yes, it’s coming. I’ll return to the hotel before the height of the storm reaches. Yes, I’ll try to stay safe and sound. Good night, Elizabeth.”

He returned to the work table and flopped down inelegantly into the chair, which had managed to become more uncomfortable as the day progressed. He shuffled through the stack of headshots in front of him and shook his head. _None were his Elio_. He flipped the stack over and stared at the recurring _**no**_ , smeared in crimson red on each. He would have to return to the drawing board. He scooped up the pile and shoved it into an accordion folder and then into his messenger bag. He began to gather up the rest of his belongings in annoyance.

Suddenly, the lights flickered and dimmed, the entrance door pushed open with a loud creak, and a boy, no a young man, walked in slowly and deliberately. He stopped in the center of the bare room. He wore a cozy brown shearling jacket, surprisingly dry, and a brown leather backpack hung from one of his shoulders. The door creaked shut with a gentle thud.

Armie shot his head up, and, unnerved by the unexpected intrusion, he threw out a series of questions at the young man, stammering the first, “Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get in here?” Then, in an attempt to regain control of the situation, he said firmly, “Auditions are over.”

“Oh, they are.” The young man drifted over to the work table, and with both hands, placed the backpack on it. 

“Yes, they are,” Armie said fervently.

“I’m here now,” the young man said coyly. “I’ll audition for you.”

“No, auditions have ended, and the reader for Oliver has left already.” Armie spoke slowly, trying to get the young man to comprehend. He heard hints of pleading in his voice. Then, he said almost dismissively, “Besides, there’s a _storm_ coming.”

The young man swayed a hand casually towards the window. “Oh that. The storm is here already, and _you_ can read for Oliver.” The young man mimicked Armie’s earlier dismissive tone and said, “Besides, you _are_ Oliver. And your hotel is not far, so what are a few more minutes.” He zipped open the bag and produced the full script, an adaptation of Andre Aciman’s _Call Me by Your Name_ , written by Armie Hammer.

Armie looked at the script, incredulously, and demanded to know, “How did you get that?”

The young man replied simply, “An agent.”

“But, but that’s not possible.”

Before Armie could say anything else, the young man pulled out a freshly starched powdered blue billowy shirt from the backpack and threw it at Armie. The shirt slammed into Armie’s chest and he gripped it and clutched it there preciously. The young man addressed Armie, “First time writer and director Armie Hammer” and then commanded, “Put this on and _read_.”

Unquestioning, Armie took off his shirt and placed billowy over his white undershirt. A loud boom came from above. Armie’s head flung up. The lights flickered and then brightened, as dimness disappeared.

“Should we start?” The young man asked as he furrowed his brows. He looked uncertain, as he held the script with one hand against his chest and rubbed the back of his neck with the other. He waited for instructions from the director. 

Armie felt himself slowly regain control and began to set up the play. “Well, this is a love story. It’s about self-discovery and is set in an idyllic summer in the Italian countryside.”

“There are many love stories. Why did you choose this one to adapt?”

“I...Well, the story spoke to me.”

“How?”

“Why don’t we start? It’s getting late,” Armie said, changing the subject. He was not ready to be questioned as to why the story meant so much to him. He did not want to reveal how he had read the book repeatedly and connected deeply with the longing that Aciman captured so brilliantly.

“Okay.”

Armie selected an early scene, where Elio and Oliver are sitting in the town square at a cafe. Armie moved two chairs to the center of the room. The young man read the scene perfectly, the words committed to his memory. Armie wondered how he could have done so, but shook it off and moved on to another scene, anxious to hear him read again. Armie hurriedly moved the chairs to the side and told him the volleyball scene would be next. 

The young man walked over to the work table and placed the script on it, leaving it there. He slid the heavy shearling jacket from his shoulders and placed it on the table as well. Underneath the jacket, he wore a simple white short sleeved t-shirt. The young man returned to the center of the room. He bounced, shaking his hands to the side and then his head, as if he were an athlete getting ready to enter a serious competition. When he was done, Armie examined him properly for the first time. Armie took at his lean yet muscular frame, pale smooth skin, chiseled but boyish features, and bounty of dark ringlets. 

_This is Elio, he thought to himself_.

“I have to touch you. I mean, the character Oliver has to touch you in this next scene. Is that okay?” Armie asked and the young man nodded, a smirk on his face.

Oliver squeezed his fingers into Elio’s shoulders and swept his hand down his arm. At the touch, it was Armie that became spellbound as they executed the scene.

“Have you casted Oliver yet?” the young man asked. “ _You_ should play him. You would be perfect in the role.”

Armie moved on abruptly and demanded another scene, and then another and then another. _Later. That’s private. Just play it again, please! Does this make any sense to you? Traitor. Tregua._ With each, he fell further under the young man’s spell. 

Time passed. The winds continued to hurl snowy pellets into the night. At some moment in time, Armie's phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pockets, and without looking at who the caller was, said, “I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of something and cannot talk right now.” He shut down the phone, putting an end to any future intrusion.

“Do you have time for more?” Armie asked the young man. The young man tilted his head, gazed into the director’s eyes, and gave him an easy nod. They continued. 

_Speak or die. You know what things. Midnight. We wasted so much time. I don’t want you to go. I remember everything._

Armie felt himself becoming unhinged, weakening as more scenes passed and as time passed. Finally, he fell limply into the chair. Aciman’s words, the talented young man before him, Elio’s tears and his own shame were consuming him.

The light in the room dimmed once again. The young man walked and stood over Armie. Armie swung his arms around the young man’s slim waist, engulfing him. He buried his face into the white t-shirt and sobbed.

“Say my name,” he whispered, stroking Armie’s blond hair gently.

“Hail, Aphrodite!” Armie responded, saying the name slowly and in reverence. He pulled back and looked up into glowing eyes and the face of indescribable beauty. 

Pleased, the young man stepped back, extricating himself from Armie’s arms, which had unwillingly parted. He ceremoniously placed a hand diagonally across his chest, bowed, and pronounced, “I have delivered your future.” The door to the studio entrance flung open and an invisible breeze seemed to swirl around the room and then disappeared. The lights flickered again and shone brighter than they had before. The sleeting snow and heavy winds vaporized and then simply were no more.

Armie shook his head as he emerged from a fog. Eyes wet, he looked up at the young man who stood before him innocently. “What’s _your_ name?” he asked, his voice filled with pent up and undiscovered emotions.

“Timothée Chalamet, but please call me Timmy,” he said softly. 

Armie looked down at his hands, in one was Timmy’s headshot, and in the other was a headshot with his own image on it. He flipped both of them over simultaneously and encircled in thick emerald green ink on each was the word _**yes**_.

**Author's Note:**

> A lil mashup inspired by David Ives's brilliant play within a play, CMBYN and Björk’s tune. 
> 
> Thank you for reading...


End file.
